


Drawn

by ElvenSorceress



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Grantaire, Domestic Fluff, Drawing, Established Relationship, M/M, Male Slash, Piningjolras, Romance, Sexual Tension, femmejolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvenSorceress/pseuds/ElvenSorceress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras allows Grantaire to sketch him and ends up enraptured by the artist at work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawn

**Author's Note:**

> There was talk of e/R having a Jack/Rose "draw me like one of your French girls" moment. This is the result.

~*~*~

It feels ridiculous honestly. Sitting still, staying quiet, doing nothing but letting Grantaire stare at him. But if was really that important, Enjolras would do it. He leans against the armrest of the couch with one leg tucked under him and a book propped in his lap while Grantaire stares at him and sketches. 

It would be uncomfortable. It should be even though supposedly he isn't bad to look at. He's been told he's pretty. He's handsome. Lovely. God-like. The words are meaningless and absurd, and often result in people expecting him to be arrogant or unintelligent. He takes great care to be neither.

But when Grantaire looks at him… he almost wants to be beautiful. He wishes he were achingly pretty and something Grantaire would want to keep staring at. He wishes he could always keep that reverent attention no matter how he looked. 

Enjolras reads for a while, but soon loses interest in the words. For once, they are pale imitations that evoke nothing. Not compared to the man across the room. 

Grantaire hunches over his large sketch pad, hand moving in quick, delicate strokes with the dark pencil. There are smudges on his fingers and wild curls falling in his face. His eyes are intense and focused, and every once in a while he'll look up and his gaze trails over Enjolras, studying, memorizing, taking in everything. 

Enjolras might not understand the severe importance of it. There have to be plenty of far more interesting subjects to sketch. But Grantaire insisted this was what he wanted most. Enjolras never could deny him for very long. Grantaire is far too soul-baringly earnest in everything. Even his pessimism. He's too haunted and faithless and loyal and affectionate all at the same time. He's confusing and he's frustrating, but so full of adoration and something so achingly genuine that it makes Enjolras' heart feel raw and ragged until Grantaire is wrapped around him and all Enjolras' broken roughness is filled in and smoothed away. 

Grantaire places his pencil between his teeth and switches to another one. He's blending shades, adding shadows and highlights. Enjolras has watched him enough to know. He could watch Grantaire all the time. 

Enjolras bites his lip and tries to look at something else. Anything else. He should read some more. He should watch the light breeze moving the trees outside or count the number of things in the room that don't belong to him but shouldn't be anywhere but in his room mixed in with his possessions. He should not watch Grantaire so absorbed and full of creative fire. Not when he is not allowed to move. 

Grantaire lifts his head up for a moment and meets Enjolras' eyes. "Will you take your hair down?" 

With minimal movements, Enjolras pulls the tie from his hair and fluffs the loose curls so they fall over his shoulders. "Does that look all right?"

A smirk curls one side of Grantaire's mouth. He nods and his focus turns back to his sketch pad. 

It's not like being laid naked and letting someone touch him. Or maybe it's like that times a thousand. He'd be exposed either way. Somehow the gaze, the drawing, being scrutinized feels much more permanent than a brief touch. It's a record and may as well be carved in stone. 

Although if he thinks on it too much, there's permanence in his memories. The images and associated emotions are etched into his skin; in every place Grantaire has touched him. 

Why can't Grantaire be touching him? Enjolras' skin is hot. He's probably flushed, and is definitely sweating. He's itching to undo more buttons on his shirt even though it's open to the middle of his chest and nowhere near his throat but everything still feels too constricting and too hot. But he's not supposed to move. He doesn't want to ruin the pose or the lighting or whatever it is that makes this so necessary to Grantaire. 

His heart pounds so quickly he can hear the beats. His blood pulses hard everywhere and makes everything ache because this studying the lines of his body and the shadows and contours of his features is beyond maddening. It's attention and not. It's so close to a touch or caress but also not. It's not enough.

Enjolras needs more. He needs actual touch and actual attention, and the more Grantaire stares, the more Enjolras needs. He needs those smudged, slightly rough hands all over his body. He needs Grantaire's lips on his, needs the hard, solid weight on him and against him and everywhere. 

Enjolras swallows because his mouth has gone dry. His voice is raspy breath. "Not to rush you or anything, but how long am I supposed to stay like this?"

Grantaire looks up. "If you're tired or bored or whatever, we can stop."

"Are you finished? Or close to it?"

He shrugs and smiles in a way that could only allude to filthy, uninhibited sex. "I could do this forever. Do you need something?"

Enjolras wets his lips, breath slow and heavy. "You."

Grantaire's cocky smile fades. His eyebrow quirks up slightly; his eyes turn inquisitive. 

"I want you," Enjolras sighs and feels breathless. Not enough air. Not enough of anything essential. Which mostly consists of the artist who loves to turn Enjolras into art. 

Grantaire sets down his drawing pencils and slides out from behind his little desk. He crosses the room and brushes his knuckles over Enjolras' cheek. The light touch sends sparks all through Enjolras' nerves and he sucks in a breath. 

Grantaire smiles and strokes one long blond curl, letting his finger trace Enjolras' throat on the way down. It's so simple. It's so light and unassuming and nothing, but Enjolras shivers and everything inside him feels twisted and tangled in inescapable heat. 

It only grows when Grantaire sits beside him and flattens his palm against the space left bare by Enjolras' unbuttoned shirt. 

His pulse beats against Grantaire's hand, and Grantaire has to know just how fast Enjolras' heart is racing. He covers Grantaire's hand with his, then grips his arm and tries to pull him closer. 

Grantaire smirks and leans forward so their noses are almost touching. "You want me?"

Enjolras turns toward him so they can fit together more easily. He's dying to grip Grantaire and crush their bodies into each other, but he doesn't. "Yes."

Grantaire's hand slides over Enjolras' knee and rests on his lower thigh. "What's the magic word?"

Without a thought, Enjolras breathes, "I love you."

There's a wash of surprise that goes over Grantaire's face. That wasn't the answer he was looking for. 

What should Enjolras say differently? He doesn't even remember what he was supposed to say. This is all he can think of. It's the only thing he's feeling. 

Grantaire swallows and tugs Enjolras' legs until he's flat on his back on the couch, then Grantaire leans forward and settles on top of him. "That wasn't what I meant," he says softly. "But I love you, too." 

Enjolras arches up into Grantaire and grips him like he can meld their bodies together and make them inseparable forever. "I figured that out. In both cases," he smiles and hooks one leg over Grantaire's. "Show me though?" He pushes up Grantaire's t-shirt, needing skin and more closeness, and whispers, "Love me."

Grantaire grips him hard and crushes their lips together, frantically, desperately kissing him. Finally kissing him. 

Enjolras moans and burns and can't remember ever wanting anything else.


End file.
